A comedy of sorts…

For I am Dromio of Syracuse
To many I seem quite mad
But life within this be-twinned noddle
Is full of strangeness though not too bad.
I cannot tell though, my mind’s awash
I’ll speak to brother Dromio
For he is of Ephesus
Where madness reigns I do know.
Yet Antipholus and Antipholus
Such madness they posses
That I poor Dromio of here
May yet be Dromio of there.
O brain I feel I know not who
My Master bids me thus
Yet Dromio of where I fear
Perhaps the he of Ephesus.
And yet Antipholus is quite mad
For he would bid be me that
For I am Dromio not of there
Plain he would talk through his fine hat.
It’s true that being one of two
Does tax the noddle in many ways
For I am Dromio of Syracuse
Less and less it seems these days.
And yet, look there, I see my twin
I see my other self
Perhaps I’m really not so mad
But rich in kin and love in wealth.

©Joe Wilson – A comedy of sorts…2016

This of course is clearly based on the shortest of William Shakespeare’s farces,

The Comedy of Errors.

The letters…

Heavy the heart
Painful the burden
The messenger’s part
In passing the word on.

Deep are the creases
That now line his brow
The pain never ceases
It’s personal somehow.

His was the book
Which counted the dead
But each killing took
His heart’s peace instead.

They were his men
He loved them like sons
They’ll not sing again
Silenced by guns.

The letters he wrote
To tell of each death
Families he smote
By words of last breath.

The killing decided
There’s no final amount
Messenger lies dead
One more for the count.

©Joe Wilson – The letters…2015

Hope springs eternal…(acrostic)

Have we really lost our way
Open warfare every day
Perhaps if some could compromise
Earnest talks could open eyes.

Sparing children from seeing death
Plaguing memories till dying breath
Rights of all, to live in health
Interfering warmongers who all get wealth
No money, the poor go to food banks
Guess you dine anywhere if you sell tanks
Somebody making a fortune from others.

Each bullet fired can kill someone’s brothers
Talks round the tables among heads of state
Extracting solutions before it’s too late
Roses should be given by lovers on a date
Not on the gravestones of victims of hate
Armageddon is the end-game we fear
Let’s step back from the edge, it’s dangerously near.

©Joe Wilson – Hope Springs Eternal…2015


The numbers rise…

Walked I along this Autumn morn
midst trees with bright red berries borne
where once men stood with with tanks as shields
on Europe’s bloodiest battlefields.

And in extraordinary Worldly War
friends kill friends who’re friends no more
as lines are drawn and power revealed
where once such things had lain concealed.

How many men and women died
for pious thoughts and national pride
whose wasted lives now lie beneath
that trampled o’er when we cross heath.

The bodies fall, the numbers rise
more victims of political lies
and yet some people still would fight
convinced that they are in the right.

Twas ever thus and shall remain
the populace feel power’s disdain
yet even now we fight their wars
with they as pimps and we their whores.

©Joe Wilson – The numbers rise…2015

Heads, you lose…

Speeding along not a care in the world
the young man and his beautiful girl
driving in an open-topped E-type Jag
they were happy
………………………….and life was a whirl.

They were racing along the motorway
fast approaching Gravelly Hill
when a tanker jack-knifed in front of them
……….I can hear their screaming still.

They had nowhere to go but under
the trailer, however, was too low
and I, in a car a short distance back
saw both of their heads suddenly

One head rolled onto the hard shoulder
and sat there staring right back at me
while the other bounced over the railing
and fell into Witton
……………………………….for all there to see.

It put me off my lunch I can tell you
for that’s where I was going at the time
and if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s totally true
it would be a case of the ridiculous
……………………………….from the sublime.


©Joe Wilson – Heads, you lose…2015


I see the lights of distant towns
yet hear the noise of happy sounds
while sitting, seeing in my cave
in total silence
……….…..like the grave.

My cave’s a room
within a house
where I sit quietly
….………..as a mouse.

I cannot think
as thought is gone
from brain which stopped
……..…….it can’t go on.

And so to dust
my body goes
reduced by maggots
……………and fed to the crows.

©Joe Wilson – Desolation…2015

Self-made Armageddon…

And the days were spent in wonder
at all the horrors He’d seen
He sent unholy flooding and chaos
To wash the planet clean.

To see if change was ever made
He waited then two thousand years
But horror still was all around
And what He saw proved all His fears.

Can man not recognise his fate
can he not see when he is wrong
can man not see of His design
that words like peace and love mean strong.

The fiery pits that destroy our Earth
aren’t in the depths of Hell
they’ll be the fire and cordite
of that last exploding shell!!

©Joe Wilson – Self-made Armageddon… 2014

Life, or is it…updated

Did you call last night, I never heard a sound
just the distant hum of a soul nearby
another lonely person passing by.

Life on the street as a lonely old tramp
under the bridge and out of sight
I live in a loneliness of my own plight

Things you left, things I saw
bits of messages left for me
why won’t you go and let me be.

Is it the booze or is it the drugs
why can’t I make out the words
it makes no sense, it’s completely absurd.

Did you leave anything when you called last night
I’ve thought once or twice about ending my life
But I’d get more drugs if I sold the knife.

How the hell did it get to this point
I’m always too far gone to care
not even sure sometimes that I’m even there.

©Joe Wilson – Life, or is it…2014


The January Sales (his only visit)

Getty Images
Getty Images

While those around him were going mad
he stood completely still
then he saw what he was looking for
picked it up and went to the till.

The madness took him by surprise
it was truly beyond belief
so when he’d found what he wanted
he’d left with a sigh of relief.

Things were thrown and tempers flared
it was well beyond the pail
and that was the only visit he made
to a January sale.

©Joe Wilson – The January Sales (his only visit) 2014
[just a bit of fun]

The Madness That Drives

Deluded by a strange life of fantasy
Fueled by his own macabre insanity
The vilest of beasts sets out once more
To create dead bodies and increase his score.

Nobody knows yet the who or the when
For the shadows are his closest friends
But when the month begins anew
There’s dead body one, and dead body two.

He seems to like to kill in twos
Psychiatrists scratch their heads confused
And witter on in gobbledygook tones
As yet more bodies turn up as bones.

It’s been a year so that’s twenty-four
He needs a holiday that’s for sure
But when on holiday he acts the same
For he loves to play his killing game.

By the sea, or near the shore
He still adds to his wicked store
Of trophies that he takes each time
When he commits these wicked crimes.

Will he be caught, he thinks not
Though there are times the trail is hot
But then he plays a clever trick
One that he thinks makes him slick.

One male one female normally
But when in trick mode, he kills three
And this he thinks throws of the scent
Of police detectives all hell-bent.

And these detectives can see no link
For our killer never stops to think
He picks them up at any place
Barely looking them in the face.

But slowly now as time goes on
His madness grows, all reason gone
This could be the end of him
It drives him closer to the rim.

Control is what he’s losing first
His plan for killing has just burst
If he goes out and kills again
He’ll make mistakes, they’ll catch him then.

And so the killings suddenly stop
Murder numbers see a drastic drop
Can they catch him, who knows how?
Will thirty dead see justice now?